All the New Atheists I've come across cite the Dialogues Concerning Natural Religion, most recently A.C. Grayling in his horrible The God Argument. BuAll the New Atheists I've come across cite the Dialogues Concerning Natural Religion, most recently A.C. Grayling in his horrible The God Argument. But I wonder how carefully they read it; more and more often I feel they are metamorphosing into their creationist enemies, diligently mining out-of-context quotes to support their claim that there is no God and they can prove it. Hume would never have said anything so silly, though I doubt he'd be surprised at the way he is now used: he gives the impression of having seen every side of this debate a hundred times. He is not an atheist but a sceptic, an important distinction. His task here is to look critically at the arguments which purportedly demonstrate that the universe displays evidence of having been created by God. He is remarkably convincing when he demonstrates their essential weaknesses.

The main problems are easy to state: we can only ever reason by analogy with things we know, we only know a small part of the universe, and, worst, we only have one example of a universe to reason about. It is impossible under such circumstances to draw firm conclusions about our universe's origins. It is arguable that the universe in some ways resembles a machine; machines are designed and produced through the agency of human minds, hence it is possible, by analogy, that the universe was produced by some Being whose mind resembles ours. Hume has little difficulty in showing that the argument is weak, and that, even if the universe was produced by a purposeful Being, we have no reason to deduce that this Being necessarily resembles us in any important respects.

The New Atheists like to quote passages from the above. Hume also considers related arguments. Machines are not the only complex, ordered things we are familiar with; there are also living creatures, which are produced by reproductive processes. (It is startling to see how close he is to explicitly hypothesizing a version of evolution). As he says, the universe is arguably as much like a living creature as it is like a machine, so once again it is feasible to reason by analogy: living things arise by reproduction, the universe is like a living thing, hence the universe perhaps arose through a process like reproduction. Yet another possibility is that the universe arose through a process of blind chance. Given enough time, its particles will cycle though all possible combinations, and in the end one configuration may arise which causes the production of the complex world of living creatures that we see.

I think Hume would have been amused to see people like Richard Dawkins and Lawrence Krauss claim, in all seriousness, that they know some version of his second or third scenario to be the true account of our universe's origin. He advances these ideas in a spirit of playfulness, to show that there are equally good alternatives to a Divine Watchmaker, but he makes it clear that he trusts them neither more nor less. He can't see any way to resolve the questions given the evidence at our disposal. We now have a great deal more evidence, but the difficulties in principle remain. With only a single universe, it is not obvious how one can use the scientific method, which relies on accumulating evidence from multiple related cases. This point has been made repeatedly in recent years by Lee Smolin, who accuses speculative cosmologists of concocting radical metaphysical fantasies and marketing them as science.

I'd love to see Hume in a panel discussion with Lawrence Krauss and Francis S. Collins. Since that, alas, seems unlikely to happen, read his book. It's short, amusingly written and remarkably sensible....more

"No!" said the little red hen. "I had the idea. I implemented the code. I ran the experiments. I wrote the paper. So I'm only going to put my name on it, and no one else's."

The little red hen was just about to submit her paper to a prestigious journal, and was feeling pretty good about herself, when the head of department intervened. "Hen," he said sternly, "what's this I hear about your paper? You need to learn to be a team player. Put more of your colleagues' names on it. Oh, and make sure that mine is first."

"Yes sir," said the little red hen humbly. And I'm told that only fifteen years later she did in fact get tenure.

Theo is a kid who lives on one side of the river. Dmitri is a kid who lives on the other side. They each have a donkey. Sometimes they stop with theirTheo is a kid who lives on one side of the river. Dmitri is a kid who lives on the other side. They each have a donkey. Sometimes they stop with their donkeys and yell at each other. After a while, they discover they've become quite friendly. It would be fun to meet up, but there's no bridge.

Theo and Dmitri's fathers are the local mayors. Each kid makes the same suggestion to his dad. "Hm!" says Theo's father. "I've heard they grow good pumpkins on the other side. Maybe there are business opportunities."

The two politicians go to the spot where the river is narrowest and yell. After a while, they've worked out a deal. Work starts on the bridge. The men go to the forest and cut down big trees. The women bring them tea and cookies. (This book was written in 1972). Finally, the bridge is ready. The politicians meet in the middle and shake hands. They put up a sign saying

THIS BRIDGE WAS BUILT BY FRIENDSHIP AND GOOD WILL

The boys are finally able to meet up in person! Many other people are delighted to start fraternizing with their new neighbors. The vegetable trade takes off. There are regular dances. But one day, tragedy strikes. A farmer at one of the dances discovers that someone has stolen his radishes. He's furious. He and his friends form a raiding party. They cross the bridge and steal some pumpkins to even the score. Within a day, a minor war has broken out. The men throw rocks at each other. The women bring them tea and cookies.

The two politicians decide it would be best to destroy the bridge. But when they see the sign that they'd put up in better times, they can't quite bring themselves to do it. They compromise by just covering it with barbed wire. Theo and Dmitri can't meet up any more with their donkeys. They are sad. They yell over the water that when they're grown up they'll do a better job.

Moral: Children think European integration will be straightforward. Adults find it's harder than they expected....more

I read this German children's classic while the Greek debt drama of July 2015 was unfolding; I would finish a chapter, go to the Daily Telegraph liveI read this German children's classic while the Greek debt drama of July 2015 was unfolding; I would finish a chapter, go to the Daily Telegraph live blog, catch up on the latest news from Brussels, then return to Emil.

The people reporting on the political story were eager to cast the Germans, particularly the hardline Finance Minister Wolfgang Schäuble, as the villains. I read many pieces about how Schäuble was imposing unreasonable and humiliating conditions on the Greeks, and when one looked at poor Euclid Tsakalotos it was indeed difficult not to feel sorry for him. But as Emil's story progressed, I began to experience an odd sympathy for the Germans. Emil, a bright and responsible eight-year-old, comes from a poor home. His father is dead. His mother doesn't bring in much as a hairdresser, but by planning carefully she is just able to make ends meet and even save a little. She's finally scraped together 140 Marks so that Emil can go and visit his grandmother in Berlin for a week, and both she and Emil are very proud of this achievement. And then, while he's on the train, a heartless thief steals his money. Emil never cries, but he cries now, because he thinks of all the sacrifices his mother made to put that little capital together. And then he moves heaven and earth to get his stolen money back.

I watched Schäuble requesting more and more outrageous conditions before he would consent to lend a third tranche of his country's money to Alexis Tsipras, and I suddenly saw him as a small boy reading Emil und die Detektive. He did now just what Emil does in the book: he made contact with a group of like-minded people, got them on his side, encircled the criminal who seemed to be on the point of making off with his assets, and forced him to capitulate. Greece will probably get its loans, but only when they've pledged suitable collateral. It was one of the toughest pieces of negotiation I've ever seen.

There's something beautiful and terrifying about that Protestant work ethic. ...more

It is rare that I feel I want to rewrite any book in this excellent series, but Max raconte des bobards is an exception. Here is the story, includingIt is rare that I feel I want to rewrite any book in this excellent series, but Max raconte des bobards is an exception. Here is the story, including my suggested amendations:

Max and Lili are on vacation at a Normandy beach town. None of the big kids will take Max seriously, so he starts making up more and more unlikely tales: he's allowed to ride on his cousin's scooter, he's an expert fisherman (just not today), he's beaten a boy several years older than himself at arm-wrestling, etc. Within a couple of days, he's become a pathological liar. He and a friend try to sneak into the beauty contest to look at the bikini babes, despite the sign at the entrance saying ADULTS: 10 FRANCS. "I'm ten," says Max with barefaced bravado. "Are you sure?" asks the ticket lady kindly. "Under tens are free." Max changes his mind without missing a beat. The bikini babes are very well done and come in all shapes and sizes.

But Max's lying has caught up with him - he'd told his parents a different story about how he was going to spend the afternoon. Suddenly he's been outed and no one will believe a word he says! So when he runs over to his friends to tell them that a girl has been cut off by the incoming tide on a little rock and is yelling for help, they laugh in his face. Nothing deterred, Max grabs a surfboard, paddles out and rescues her all on his own. He returns in triumph pushing the distressed damsel on the board, while he swims along behind it. "Gotta believe in yourself," he murmurs as he accepts congratulations on his heroism. The girl drowns, and her shocked mother screams hysterically that if only he hadn't told so many lies her daughter would still be alive. Max has a nervous breakdown and is clearly going to spend the rest of his life seeing psychiatrists.

Ah, sorry. After-effects of reading the Brothers Grimm last week......more

It is impossible to believe the author's claim that the Ask Burlefot novels are not based on incidents from hisAnswers to test from part #1

Question 1

It is impossible to believe the author's claim that the Ask Burlefot novels are not based on incidents from his life. A large number of important plot points correspond well with facts readily available on the web; Heger's 1999 biography, Mykle: Ett diktet liv, provides many more confirming details, even though he also mentions several places where book and reality clearly diverge.

Question 2

Europe, as Doris Lessing memorably calls it in Shikasta, constitutes "the north-west fringes of the major landmass"; Norway is at the edge of Europe; Kirknes is at the far end of Norway. I think D is most appropriate.

The following map may be useful:

Question 3

It is not at all easy to say which of the cited novels "Ask Burlefot" most closely resembles, and one can make a reasonable case for all four. I was initially most tempted to associate it with Fear of Flying. Mykle is as fascinated with cunts as Jong is with cocks, and even today one is startled by the detailed descriptions he provides; I'm almost having trouble remembering that I haven't in fact had sex with any of these women. The books sold well on their reputation as pornography, and the 1970 movie sounds as though it's been entirely reorganized along these lines.

But, as the story progressed, I began to feel that it was unfair to think of Mykle as a simple pornographer. Even though Ask spends a large part of his time seducing various women and the sex is described in great detail, the way in which it was presented increasingly reminded me of Updike's "Rabbit" books. Mykle wants to give you an unvarnished interior portrait of what an irresponsible sex addict is like, and, as with Rabbit, he is just as detailed in showing you the consequences of Ask's heartless behavior. At the beginning, you're probably identifying with him and enjoying his erotic adventures; by the end, you're identifying at least as much with the women and wanting to defend them. I'm sure this is intentional.

Comparing with the Kjærstad and Knausgård novels, both writers seem to have studied Mykle closely and developed his ideas in new and fruitful directions. Kjærstad has reworked the erotic themes in a more satisfying way, and created a book which is artistically and philosophically much deeper. He is rather touchingly explicit about his debt to Mykle, and in fact it was only because of his enthusiastic (though characteristically ambiguous) praise that I ever got around to reading him. But the most interesting comparison is Knausgård. Min kamp, in a way, starts where Mykle finishes, confronting the moral aspects head-on and making them the central theme. Throughout Mykle, you can never stop thinking that what he's doing is not right: the fact that he's going to use this as material for his novel surely doesn't permit him to behave so dreadfully to the various women in his life, and the passage in book #1 where he explicitly tries to excuse himelf in these terms is uncomfortable reading. Mykle's books take place in the late 1930s, with the Third Reich constantly in the background. Ask hates Hitler, but does nothing worth mentioning to oppose the many Nazi sympathizers he meets, and his own behavior is in a way just the same megalomaniac ruthlessness on a smaller scale. All of this is glossed over in Mykle, but Knausgård, to his credit, examines the questions with the seriousness they deserve.

Mykle's books have obvious flaws, but they are alive in a way few novels are. They have had a large influence, and it's odd that they've been forgotten outside Norway.

Question 4

I found myself constantly changing my mind about the extent to which Mykle's books are misogynistic. Many passages, at least on the surface, are shockingly misogynistic, but one is never quite certain what is ironic and what is not. Some passages almost have to be ironic, but others come across as pretty much straight. In particular, he tells us many times how much he hates his mother, and as far as I can see the obvious interpretation is the correct one. There are other passages where he sexually exploits women, without it in any way being obvious that the author thinks there might be something wrong with what he's done.

I did not find Mykle as misogynistic as Strindberg, but he easily stands comparison with the other authors.

Question 5

It's not a trick question: the imagery is to a large extent based on classical sagas of the Norse gods and business administration workbooks. Of these, the first works reasonably well, but I'm not too confident about the second. The author spent a lot of time working in business administration schools, and it is quite astonishing how often he makes detailed allusions to it. It's one of things that made me feel he really wasn't very sane.

Question 6

i) "Gunnhild" = B

ii) "Siv" = C

iii) Ask's mother = A

It's interesting to note that Ask's mother only has a very small role in the second volume and that the angelic Siv has completely disappeared. Gunnhild, on the other hand, is a constant shadowy menace in the background. Sometimes Ask feels sorry for her, but more often he expresses his utter disgust with the cheap, vulgar near-alcoholic prostitute who was cruel enough to have become pregnant by him. It is unpleasant to read.

Question 7

Another thing I constantly found myself wondering about was the extent to which the sex scenes were taken from life. They are described in an startlingly circumstantial way, but some of them are also very hard to believe.

I found myself swinging back and forward between two opposing views. It seems plausible that Mykle was indeed extremely attractive to women, and perhaps he was the tireless sexual athlete that's depicted here. On the other hand, there's the scene in volume #1 with the ageing Captain that Ask meets on the boat, who's so very explicit about his own adventures. It's suggested that the Captain is a boastful liar who's exaggerating the extent of his conquests because he feels his best years are over, and soon he'll be unable to satisfy the girls. When Mykle wrote the novels he would have been about the Captain's age. Maybe this is his sly way of telling you that he's an unreliable sexual narrator.

As usual in this odd novel, you aren't sure what's going on or how subtle the author is being. Mykle says in the foreword to volume #2 that his book should be read twice. Perhaps I'll have to do that....more

[A dingy office somewhere in Scotland. ANDY, a earnest and bespectacled young man in hisCelebrity Death Match Special: Infinite Jest versus Wet House

[A dingy office somewhere in Scotland. ANDY, a earnest and bespectacled young man in his early 20s, is sitting at a table with MIKE, a somewhat older man with a brutal appearance and HELEN, a plain, kind-looking middle-aged woman. They are all studying a long form]

MIKE: Jesus fucking Christ. What were we supposed to do again?

HELEN: They say they want us to describe this play, "and if possible compare with related works of literature".

MIKE: Well lad-di-dah. Isn't that just the fucking DHSS for you. [He turns to ANDY] Okay son, you've had a university education. Why don't you give us a related work of fucking literature? Any ideas?

ANDY: Ah, I don't know, I was thinking maybe Infinite Jest by the late David Foster Wallace?

[MIKE rolls his eyes. HELEN ignores him.]

HELEN: And why do you think that would be appropriate, Andy?

ANDY: Well, there's a whole plot thread set in Ennet House Drug and Alcohol Recovery Home. I thought that might be quite similar to--

MIKE: Listen, you little twat, we need to get one thing straight right now. No one here's "recovering". Every member of this house is busy drinking him or herself to death, and your job is to keep them off the street while they're doing it and call the fucking ambulance when they've finished.

ANDY: But I find the figure of Don Gately in Wallace's novel very inspiring. Surely we can--

HELEN: Andy, don't mind Mike. I know you're trying to help. But I'm afraid I've looked at Infinite Jest a little and it's nothing like our play. David Foster Wallace has obviously never been inside one of these places for more than five minutes. His characters speak an absurd language that only an ivory-tower academic could imagine as appropriate to a bunch of hopeless alcoholics and drug addicts, but Paddy Campbell has actually lived with these people and understands them.

ANDY: I don't know, Helen. I mean, what you said just now sounded a bit--

[Enter DINGER. He has an agitated air and speaks very quickly]

DINGER: I think someone should look at Kerry.

HELEN: Why, what's she doing?

DINGER: She's passed out in a pool of vomit downstairs. I'm not sure she's breathing.

PLATO: I can see you do. But why don't you tell me more about your impressions of Plato at the Googleplex?

MANNY: Uh, yes. So, I guess I thought it was pretty good. She seemed to have put a lot of work into it and she did a fine job of quoting your actual words whenever possible. That was clever.

PLATO: I also approved of her methods.

MANNY: It certainly helped me understand you better. I hadn't grasped the historical context at all - the Peleponnesian War, and the Reign of the Thirty, and the importance of Alcibiades. And, even more centrally, the way in which you and Socrates were trying to disentangle the notion of arete from that of kleos and turn it into our modern notion of "virtue". That was extraordinary.

PLATO: I know Rebecca thought a great deal about those parts.

MANNY: A lot of it was funny too. Your conversations with Cheryl the media escort, and the arrogant neuroscientist, and the thinly disguised version of Bill O'Reilly. She made sure people knew about your playful side.

PLATO: Why is it so seldom mentioned? Don't my jokes translate well?

MANNY: And, heck, all the stuff about eros and learning. How you can only really learn from the people you love. Dammit, she loves you and she's not afraid to admit it. That was, um, that was actually very moving. But--

PLATO: All this, and there's a "but"?

MANNY: I'm afraid there is.

PLATO: Go on.

MANNY: Well... she keeps telling us about how vitally important you consider mathematics. How you'd only let mathematicians into your Academy, and how the guardian caste in your kallipolis, your Republic, all have to study mathematics for decades. But here you were, in the twenty-first century...

PLATO: Yes?

MANNY: Okay... why weren't you talking more to the scientists? I mean, hard scientists, cosmologists and particle physicists? There are a few mentions here and there, but it's just a sentence or two in passing. In particular, why aren't you talking to people about quantum mechanics? If there's one thing in the modern age that I'm completely certain you'd want know about, it's quantum mechanics. Talk about escaping from the Cave. It could hardly be more literal. You'd find it astonishing, much more astonishing than seeing a low-resolution picture of your brain on fMRI.

PLATO: So you think the book should have had more about cosmology and quantum mechanics?

Visiting Spain for a conference earlier this month, I impulsively decided to do something about my almost non-existent Spanish. I began by reading theVisiting Spain for a conference earlier this month, I impulsively decided to do something about my almost non-existent Spanish. I began by reading the Spanish edition of Le petit prince, which got me started nicely. Now I wanted to try something harder. I had in fact read Persepolis in French not long after it came out, but I remembered very little of it; this would be a proper test of whether I had actually learned anything. I was pleased to find that I could read it! I'm still having to guess a lot of words, and every now and then I found a sentence that made no sense at all, but I could follow the story without difficulties.

The thing which surprised me most was that I found I liked the book better in Spanish than I had in French. After a while, I figured out why: my very uncertain language skills forced me to look carefully at all the pictures, and I realized that I hadn't properly appreciated them first time round. I'd read the book pretty much in one sitting, which didn't do it justice. This time, I gave the graphical aspects the attention they deserved.

But dammit, forget the Spanish and the artwork: it's still the story that wins. Her horror and indignation over the dreadful Iranian republic are so powerfully expressed. There's one episode in particular that I can't get out of my head. She's been characteristically loudmouthed at school. The teachers call her parents, and they tell her very seriously that she must be more careful. Does she know what had happened to the teenage daughter of the man they knew who made false passports?

Marji looks at them.

Well, say her parents, they arrested her. And they sentenced her to death. But, according to Iranian law, one may not put a virgin to death. So she was forcibly married to one of the revolutionary guards, and he deflowered her. And then they could shoot her. But, again according to Iranian law, the groom must give the bride a dowry, and if she is dead he must give it to her parents. So the next day, a representative of the revolutionary guard called on them. And he gave them fifty tumanes - about five dollars. That was the price for her virginity and her life.

I'm sorry, says Marji, stunned. I didn't know.

The truly terrifying thing is that the tone, throughout most of the book, is one of amused irony. As she says in another very powerful passage, when she meets a friend who's been horribly mutilated after serving in the war with Iraq, you can only complain up to a certain point, when the pain is still bearable. After that it makes no sense any more. All you can do is laugh....more

Okay Are actors and opera singers somehow better than us?No? So why do you get dressed up whI promise, after this no more wit and wisdom of LE CHAT...

Okay Are actors and opera singers somehow better than us?No? So why do you get dressed up when you listen to themand just wear your usual crappy clothes for me?At the very leastYou can turn off your cellphone while you're reading my reviewThank you

We have visited Spain twice in the last year, and this time I decided that I really had to get better acquainted with the Spanish language. I knew thaWe have visited Spain twice in the last year, and this time I decided that I really had to get better acquainted with the Spanish language. I knew that it was structurally very similar to French, but I had little vocabulary. I decided to try my usual first move: I went into a bookstore, bought a copy of Le Petit Prince, and opened it at page 1.

Not, who fails to share my passion for language, was skeptical. If I more or less know this book by heart, she asked logically, in what sense am I reading it? A perfectly good question; but what I'm doing, of course, is matching up the Spanish words and grammar to the text I can remember, and thereby increasing my command of Spanish. And it's worked quite well! In a couple of days, I have at least doubled my pitiful stock of words, and I'm starting to recognize the verb endings. Here's an example to show how far I've got. I give the Spanish original above and the sorta-French I am mentally filling in underneath:

[In front of coffee cup]The future seems less stressfulnow that I read it in decaff.[FreAnd for those who want still more wit and wisdom of LE CHAT...

[In front of coffee cup]The future seems less stressfulnow that I read it in decaff.[French psychics use coffee grounds rather than tea leaves]

If you steal a fish for a manYou will feed him for a day.If you teach him how to stealHe will eat all his life.

[Holding tennis racket and talking to journalist]JOURNALIST: So do you prefer grass or astroturf?LE CHAT: Dunno... I've never smoked astroturf.

They say a picture is worth a thousand words.And I am in no way averse to the thought that images (irrespective of whether they are digital, printed, televisual or distributed in the service of advertising), in our civilization, whether one wishes it or not, undoubtedly have the property that the graphical representation of an idea can have a more determinate effect on the reader's sensibilities than a long piece of verbiage in which each term, however appropriate it may be in itself, simultaneously acts both against itself and, more seriously, against the discourse viewed as a whole.

If an optimist has a ladder, he's happy!And if one day someone steals the rungsHe doesn't say Damn! Someone's stolen my rungs!He says Hey! It's fine. I've got a pair of stilts.And if, a bit later, someone steals one of the stiltsHe doesn't say Shit! Someone's stolen my stilt!He says Hey! It's not so bad. I wanted to learn how to pole-vault.And if, still later, someone breaks his poleHe doesn't say Fuck! Some bastard has broken my pole!He says Hey! Perfect! I'll cut it up in rung-sized piecesand if I later find two stilts, you know what?I'll be able to make a ladder!

You know the guy who said that only crazy people never change their minds?Well he wasn't crazySo he changed his mindAnd saidOnly crazy people change their mindsAnd so he didn't change his mind.

Take the third and sixth words of the first talk bubble from the Jan 8 strip.Add the fourth, eighYet more wit and wisdom of LE CHAT, freely translated

Take the third and sixth words of the first talk bubble from the Jan 8 strip.Add the fourth, eighth, ninth and thirteenth words of the second talk bubble from the Feb 22 strip.And you get a really funny joke!(Only for hardcore fans)

[Lying in bed next to beautiful woman]LE CHAT: Was it good for you?WOMAN: Oh yes. Especially when it stopped.

[At steering wheel, bottle in one hand, glass in the other]Drinking and driving. It's a problem.When I turn left, no sweat.I just automatically pour myself one.But when I turn right, everything tips out.

Studies show that mobile phones can cause brain damage.People who talk to morons are particularly at risk.

[Beaming 50s-style housewife in front of washing machine]Mrs Turin says: "Since I started using Ariel, I no longer get Messiah stains in my shrouds!"

[Lying in bed next to inflatable sex doll]LE CHAT: Was it good for you?DOLL: Pfffff...

Humor gives you wingExtracts from the wit and wisdom of LE CHAT, freely translated

Sometimes I talk to myself.Then at least I know someone's listening.

Humor gives you wings.[Jumps off cliff, falls like a rock. At bottom...]Hm. It must be love.

Should we laugh at the misfortunes of others?That depends on whether they're funny.

[Faces reader and waves]Hi George! How's it goin'?[Stops to explain]I'm imagining some guy called George is reading my strip.He must be so happy to think he's my friend.[Considers it further]Wait a minute. I'm crazy to be doing this with guys.I could pick up girls like THAT.[Tries again]Hi Simone! Lookin' good!

Everything I say makes you laugh.Just as well.Because what I don't say would make you cry.

[Empty strip, just talk bubbles]The guy who draws me is so fucking drunk this eveninghe didn't notice he was drawing me with an eraser.

[At the gym]If I lift weightsI build up my biceps.But if I THINK I'm lifting themI build up my brain.

The word "long" is shorter than the word "short".Weird, huh?

[With cocktail glass]I've been trying to drown my sorrows.But the fuckers have learned how to swim.

I have a sexy little car.Is that what they call autoeroticism?

The future scares me.I turn my back on it...and it's still in front of me.

This is a remarkable book, and it's quite likely the main reason why its illustrator, Charb, was killed on January 7 2015 along with most of the CharlThis is a remarkable book, and it's quite likely the main reason why its illustrator, Charb, was killed on January 7 2015 along with most of the Charlie Hebdo staff. First point to note for any members of Al-Quaeda who happen to be reading this: if the Kouachi brothers hadn't murdered Charb and his colleagues, I wouldn't be posting this review, I wouldn't have read the book, and, indeed, I wouldn't even have heard of it. I presume jihadists are all familiar with the concept of martyrdom. Well, it works both ways. Je suis Charlie.

Anyway, enough of that and let's talk about the book itself. It is, indeed, very blasphemous and also very funny. But why is it so blasphemous and so funny? It's easy to give a straightforward answer to these questions: it's very blasphemous, not merely to do a cartoon Life of the Prophet, but to depict him naked, having sex with his numerous women, going to the bathroom, etc; and, if you have a sufficiently warped mind, it's very funny to see how Charb's adroit pencil treats these subjects using his trademark deadpan humor. I completely understand that the preceding sentences will make any believing Muslim's blood boil with fury, but please don't martyr me until we get to the end of the review. You'll only have to wait a couple of minutes.

I submit that there is a more interesting reason why La vie de Mahomet is both blasphemous and funny, and that is that the book, at least according to what I've seen so far, presents a fairly standard biography of the Prophet; the text has been written by "Zineb", an Arabic-speaking scholar who's very familiar with Islamic traditions, and contains numerous direct quotes from the surahs and hadiths. I hope one of my Muslim friends will suggest a mainstream book that I can read and compare with this one, so that I can be surer of my facts; but, at least as far as I am aware right now, Charb has done no more than supply the illustrations.

I think that Charb is making a worthwhile point here that isn't frivolous at all. The Muslim prohibition against depicting the Prophet doesn't strike me as irrational or wrong, but on the contrary entirely sensible. Religions have a well-known tendency towards idolatry, worshiping humanly created symbols (statues, paintings, cathedrals) rather than the thought behind them; the Catholic Church has historically been one of the most egregious sufferers from this syndrome. Clearly idolatry is wrong, and a simple way to limit its spread is to be brutal about controlling the production of idols. But, unfortunately, people have a deep-rooted love of idols, and if they aren't allowed to worship a statue they'll find the next best thing available. Charb is just pointing out in his satirical way that Muslims, even though they aren't allowed to idolize painted depictions of the Prophet, are idolizing the story of his life; when you add pictures, you can see at once that a lot of it is evidently just another ridiculous human construct. The core message of monotheism, which comes across clearly in this book, is that we should worship the intangible and immaterial One, not earthly symbols that stand for Him. This in particular includes people. People are weak and fallible. They are greedy for food and sex, they are full of petty anger and jealousy, they lie when it suits them and they think they can get away with it, and they should not be confused with God. But, somehow, we want to do it, even though we know it's wrong.

That, in my humble opinion, is the contrast which makes Charb's book so funny. Okay, I'm sorry to have kept you waiting. You can shoot me now....more

- We must, ah, agree to disagree. Alors, la désintegration de la civilisation occidentale. There will be increasing relaxation of the mœurs sexuels. Women will comport themselves like prostitutes, openly flaunting their faces, their legs, their breasts-

- I think it's important to describe this process explicitly.

- Absoluement, très important. The reader must be shown how these femmes décadentes behave.

- At length.

- This time, I see we agree, M. Heinlein! And then, there will be violence.

- Limited nuclear war.

- Disruption of the élection présidentielle française.

- Details, details, Michel. We can sort that out later. But the important thing is, the West is finished.

- Oui, fini.

- They will take over. It's inevitable.

- C'est inévitable.

- But there will be a few strong, survivor types. Rugged, well-prepared libertarians.

- Oui, professors of nineteenth century literature.

- They will still be there. They will take younger women.

- Jeunes étudiantes.

- Their daughters-in-law.

- Again, M. Heinlein, des détails. We agree that there is only one thing to do?

Not's review of The Naked Ape reminded me of this unknown book, which reports on the lost generation of Swedish children who were made the subject ofNot's review of The Naked Ape reminded me of this unknown book, which reports on the lost generation of Swedish children who were made the subject of various experiments in educational psychology between 1965 and 1980. The author reports on his progress through the Swedish school system. In every year, they restart mathematics from scratch using set theory or whatever the fashionable thing happened to be at the time, and never get as far as multiplication. They learn geography by studying politically correct folk legends from the countries in question.

Well, he says at the end of the chapter, I went Interrailing when I was 19 so I found out where Denmark is. But how much is three times three?...more

I send this belated Easter missive from the Loire valley, where I have for the last week beenTo the Good Reads Club, Pall Mall, London

8th April, 1873

I send this belated Easter missive from the Loire valley, where I have for the last week been the guest of an old friend, M. le Baron de Y___. The Baron is a delightful host, and it would be a brave man who dared find fault with his cellars; they put to shame even the High Table of my old Cambridge college. But exquisite as the Baron's taste may be regarding hock and claret, his taste in books surpasses it; he has regaled me with so many choice volumes, both old and new, that I was frankly at a loss to know which I should describe first, and for a moment felt myself in the unfortunate predicament of Buridan's ass. Nonetheless, the mail pouch leaves in an hour; and possessing intellectual faculties firmer of purpose than those of the philosopher's unfortunate beast, I rapidly concluded my choice in favour of M. Pierre Larousse's inestimable dictionary, the eighth volume of which I have just been fortunate enough to read.

There are doubtless those among you, unfamiliar with M. Larousse's magnum opus, who wonder how a mere reference book could so excite my interest. I hasten to explain that it is quite unlike its English cousins, and is at one and the same time a philosophical treatise, a work of literature, and, in no way least, an entertainment. In order to persuade the doubting Thomases of the club that my protestations be not devoid of sense, I cast about for an entry suitable to illustrate the nature of this singular book: and I can do no better than to take that for femme.

Had M. Larousse written a dictionary in the English style, his explanation would have covered but a scant page and consisted of a definition, a note on etymology and some quotations illustrating the use of the word "woman". I found that M. Larousse, to my delight, has not contented himself with such a paltry treatment of this theme. His disquisition, which has the form of a lengthy essay, covers nearly a hundred pages, almost a book in itself: and despite the lateness of the hour and the smallness of the print, I confess that, once I had started reading, I could not tear myself from it until I had reached the end.

M. Larousse considers the word femme from all its aspects. He begins much as our own dear Doctor Johnson, with definitions and quotations, but this is the merest introduction; he then goes on to discuss feminine anatomy and physiology and the history and geography of the female race. There was much here to instruct, and I was moved to anger and indignation by his accounts of how women, in almost all barbarian countries, are reduced to a level of servitude which scarcely distinguishes them from livestock: this is particularly the case for those races where Mahometanism has taken the ascendancy. Here, I am entirely of M. Larousse's opinion: the Mahometan faith is antipathetic to all Christian principles, and nowhere shows its character more clearly than in its shameful treatment of the weaker sex. I am sure that some members of the Club will disagree with me; I hope I may counsel them, in all humility, to read M. Larousse's work and reflect further on the matter.

But, even in the enlightened countries of Europe, there are many who claim that women are oppressed by the hands of men and seek an amelioration of their condition. In a long section, M. Larousse presents the opinions of four French philosophers, who boldly examine what is surely the crux of the question: is woman inescapably the inferior of man, or should she hope one day to achieve a status of equality between the two sexes? During this part of the article, I was in particular struck by the contrast between the views of M. Fourier and M. Proudhon. M. Fourier goes as far as to argue that woman may intellectually be man's superior; in support of his ideas, for example, he tells us that most reigning queens are women of force and character, while most kings are incompetent degenerates. An interesting point, which I look forward to discussing with you all on my return; though it is, naturally, hard to pay serious heed to such extraordinary notions, they are perhaps more worthy of attention than they first appear.

M. Proudhon is of a more sober and philosophical bent, and I was more inclined to sympathize with him. He begins with the incontestable fact that men exceed women with regard to physical strength, where he estimates their preponderance as being in the ratio of 3 to 2. He then argues that intellectual power is inescapably linked to physical ability, and in a telling passage lays out his case. Active intelligence is a consequence of the virile force that ultimately comes from the seminal fluid, a resource available only to the male sex. M. Proudhon, evidently a disciple of Herr Kant, notes that women are unable to formulate universals or categories of their own accord, and can only receive them from male thinkers; they are, in a word, antimetaphysical, the consequence being that their lack of seminal fluid leads to their mental inferiority being as great as their physical inferiority, namely falling in the same ratio of 3 to 2. Using similar arguments, M. Proudhon determines that the identical ratio of 3 to 2 applies also in the case of moral capacity. As society depends on physical, intellectual and moral abilities, with each one mutually influencing the others, we find that the superiority of male over female is as 3 times 3 times 3 to 2 times 2 times 2, or 27 to 8; indeed a very important difference, and one that adequately explains the facts of our society. But despite the compelling nature of M. Proudhon's arguments and my own very meagre knowlege of physiology and mathematics, I cannot shake off the feeling that the case may be less simple than it appears. I am sure that our medical colleague will have his own opinions, and I anticipate another lively discussion over the port!

There is much that I would add, but the boy informs me that the pouch will wait no longer; I am forced to end here, except to convey, once again, my fondest wishes to you all.

A question that's been bothering me all morning is whether I have a moral right not to order a T-shirt with an offensive cartoon of the Prophet MuḥammA question that's been bothering me all morning is whether I have a moral right not to order a T-shirt with an offensive cartoon of the Prophet Muḥammad (PBUH) and start wearing it. Until yesterday, I would not have dreamed of doing such a thing, which would have been gratuitously offensive to all my Muslim friends. But now, I wonder if I'm only refraining from showing solidarity with the dead cartoonists because I'm afraid someone will shoot me.

My intuitions are confused. Not doing something out of politeness and respect for other people's religious feelings is clearly right. But not doing it out of craven cowardice is clearly wrong. Which principle applies here? I hope some experts on ethical philosophy are preparing an answer. _____________________________________

The comment thread has already become very long, so may I just briefly summarize my main response.

The suggestion I make here was inspired by the many public readings of The Satanic Verses held after the fatwa was issued against Salman Rushdie. The purpose of those readings was to show solidarity with Rushdie and demonstrate belief in the freedom of speech. Without them, the publisher might well have decided that Rushdie's book was too hot to handle, establishing an extremely dangerous precedent. It was generally held afterwards that the public readings had been a good thing.

In this case, people have also been quick to agree on the importance of solidarity. Everywhere you look, you find the phrase JE SUIS CHARLIE. But it seems to me that this is quite different from the response to the Rushdie case. When you hold up a sign saying JE SUIS CHARLIE, you are not really taking any risk, since you are not repeating the offensive material. I'm just being logical here: the real way to say JE SUIS CHARLIE is to repeat one of the cartoons that got them firebombed and then shot down in cold blood. Like this one.

For people who don't read French, it really is quite funny. The title CHARLIE HEBDO at the top is replaced by SHARIA HEBDO. The speech bubble says "A hundred lashes if you don't die laughing". _____________________________________

Wastrel reminds me that Charlie Hebdo didn't just offend Muslims. After a couple of minutes of searching, I found the following splendidly tasteless cover:

It took me a little while to figure it out, but apparently the reference is to a Mgr. Vingt-Trois, who had made some outspoken comments against gay marriage. The headline says "MGR VINGT-TROIS HAS THREE DADDIES" (I am guessing this may allude to the children's book Jennifer Has Two Daddies), and the speech bubbles say "The Father", "The Son" and "The Holy Ghost". [Yann in #307 says this is not quite right: the cover refers to a heated public debate on adoption by homosexual couples, where the Catholics who were campaigning against it used the slogan "Un papa et une maman" ("One daddy and one mommy")]

Or if you're looking for outrageous and inappropriate anti-Israeli humor:

The headline says "ALREADY CHRISTMAS IN PALESTINE". The arrow pointing left says "Costume for Israeli child". The arrow pointing right says "Costume for Palestinian child".

But this even more outrageous cover, which has been widely reprinted, is not genuine CH: it's a parody by Joe le Corbeau, an associate of the notorious racist comedian Dieudonné. I was fooled, as were many newspapers. [Thank you again Yann for catching this!]

Speech bubble: "1 million reduction on the 6, in exchange for Palestine!"_____________________________________

People who want to see more examples of Charlie Hebdo covers should look at Yann's review. These guys were really funny and disrespectful, about everything: the Muslims, yes, but at least as much the Israelis, the US, the Russians, the French, the Germans, the extreme right, the Catholic church, and pretty much anything else you can think of.

I'm very sorry that they had to be killed in this horrible way before I ever got around to looking at their work. It should have been easier to get my attention._____________________________________

The cover for the latest issue, which is due out tomorrow:

"ALL IS FORGIVEN"

You gotta hand it to them, these guys really have a sense of humor._____________________________________

Even though the new issue is already out in France, it won't be on sale here until tomorrow. The local papers can talk about nothing else. The print run has been increased twice, from one million to three million and then to five million, and supply is still not meeting demand. People in Paris are queuing up outside the newsagents before they open, and a few minutes later every copy has been sold.

Tribune de Genève reproduces one of the cartoons on its front page. Below, a crowd of robot-like commuters are all intently reading their copies of Charlie Hebdo. Above, the four murdered cartoonists sit on a cloud and remark C'est dur d'être aimé par des cons ("It's hard to be loved by idiots"). This is a reference to one of CH's most famous covers, where the Prophet Muḥammad (PBUH), weeping, is saying the same thing.

_____________________________________

You can't get copies here for love or money, though admittedly I haven't yet explored the first alternative. According to the ever-reliable Tribune, the station newsstand was all sold out by 5.30 am.

Well, we live right next door to la Gare de Cornavin - it's literally a two minute walk. I will try getting up very early tomorrow morning. If necessary I will propose to the woman behind the counter. _____________________________________

I finally managed to obtain a copy of the Survivor's Number and have been looking at it this evening. It's very moving.

Here was the bit I liked most, which doesn't seem to have been widely remarked on. It's a paragraph from the tribute piece by Zineb El Rhazoui, the woman who wrote the text for the wonderful Vie de Mahomet:

ALLAH AKBAR!

Before they executed the team, the killers shouted twice "God is great!" Well, no, fuckwits. If he really existed, do you think he would have let your terminal stupidity extinguish the brilliant minds of Wolinski, Cabu, Honoré, Charb, Tignous, Bernard Maris, Elsa Cayat and Mustapha Ourrad? Allah Akbar! was Charb's war-cry, the greeting he used in mails and SMSs. "Allah Akbar! Do you think you could have your copy ready for tomorrow?" One day, I remember we were teasing him at the office: "Charb, stop yelling that, the day they arrive to kill you we won't know if it's a joke!" And they did arrive. At Charlie, we knew that humor was something very serious.

Sitting next to a seven year old boy at dinner the other day, the conversation, as it so often does in these circumstances, turned to the interestingSitting next to a seven year old boy at dinner the other day, the conversation, as it so often does in these circumstances, turned to the interesting subject of poo. Jenkin proudly informed me that he had received a copy of Plop Trumps for Christmas. I was treated to a precis of the rules.

"You might like The Story of the Little Mole Who Went in Search of Whodunnit," I guessed. We were both delighted when it turned out that Jenkin had in fact already read it.

"You got it for me from the English library," he told his mother.

"Did I?" she said uncertainly. "Honestly, I just can't keep up. I bring back a load of books, and an hour later he says he's finished them all."

It is a pleasure to meet the new generation of book nerds. Relax, everyone: the future is safe....more

"I do not want to belong to any club that would have me as a member," said Groucho Marx in his most frequently quoted line - one that I thought of sev"I do not want to belong to any club that would have me as a member," said Groucho Marx in his most frequently quoted line - one that I thought of several times while reading Confronting the Classics. Good grief, Mary Beard is doing just what I've done! She's taken a bunch of reviews, tidied them up a bit, stuck on some linking text, and called it a book! I mean, come on. I've tried her formula, and I know all the drawbacks. No doubt the individual reviews are quite good, but the construction is choppy and fragmented. It has no coherence. And she's never really addressing the reader. A lot of the time, it's painfully obvious that she's invited me into her text and then, in an elementary faux pas that no society hostess would dream of committing, she's blatantly ignoring me while she talks to the author instead. What kind of behavior is that?

Embarrassingly, though, Professor Beard is able to muster one point in her defense: her method appears to work. Despite doing three years of Latin at school, I have never felt very interested in classical studies. I passed my Latin O-level with difficulty and have never learned any Greek. I am extremely vague on classical history. But having read a few dozen of her reviews, I discover that I am rather better informed about the subject than I was before. Book reviewing, as everyone on this site knows, is an enjoyable spectator sport. I found myself paying close attention as she rapped one author over the knuckles for analyzing Latin dramas that possibly never existed, or spent half a page discussing why another didn't bother to mention in his biography of a certain famous classicist that the gentleman in question had a habit of sexually harassing his female students. She made the subject exciting. It becomes apparent than many of the so-called experts in this field are perilously close to the boundary which separates speculative research from out-and-out fraud. The facts are hard to obtain, and the temptation to extrapolate and add more or less fictitious details is enormous. She can spot them cheating when I'd gullibly swallow their stories, and it's fun to watch. And while you do that, in a manner that's familiar to anyone who hangs out on this site, you find yourself learning. After all, if you don't familiarize yourself with the background you can't follow the match.

Well... I don't know. It's hard to argue with results; maybe this isn't such a bad format after all. In fact, I almost wonder if I shouldn't try it again myself......more